The Painting
by Aoi Kaminari
Summary: In his sixth year, Harry finds himself taken to art. Yet, he cannot paint his godfather… Harry and Luna centered. Complete.
1. Part 1

The Unfinished Painting

**Disclaimer**: How the bloody hell could I create _Harry Potter_ when I'm still learning English?

**Pairings**: very mild R/Hr (nothing more than in the books), the rest is friendship (because I support Lone Hero and the Dead Harry Society).

**Summary**: In his sixth year, Harry finds himself gifted at drawing. However, there is one picture of his godfather that he cannot paint and he determines to perfect it.

**Chapter 1**

Harry bit his lips and sighed at his creation. Another failure. No matter how many times he painted, it still did not look like _him_. There was no trace of resembling, or at least that was what he thought. Angrily, he tore out the paper from its spine and crumbled it into a ball, which he forcefully threw in a trash can. He picked up his pencil and began another sketch as his mind wandered.

The summer after his fifth year had been misery. Harry had, at first, denied Sirius' death through delusion, claiming that his godfather had simply been on the run. Ron and Hermione had been frustrated to no end and had begged Dumbledore for Harry to visit the Burrows much earlier, in hope they would be able to help him in person. A miracle had happened, and Harry had been back to normal, or as normal as possible.

Harry formed a small smile at his memory. He would have been lost if not for Luna Lovegood. Her share of losses and her serene had calmed Harry. With her, his burden became less heavy and his loss was less traumatic. Perhaps, Harry thought with another smile, he had been too busy pondering over Heliopath and Blibbering Humdinger (or was it Nargle?) to have time for self-reproach.

After he had accepted Sirius' death, Harry followed Hermione's advice to write his feelings on parchments. Ginny had protested, saying it would not do Harry any good and reminded him of Riddle's diary in her first year. Hermione had won, of course, but soon, Harry grew tired of writing and switched to painting, which he quickly became passionate.

He had bought a set of muggle instruments and books on drawing techniques. He would exhaust his entire morning and afternoon for sketching and painting. Ron had been horrified since his best friend was spending less time with him, yet Hermione had been there. Ron and Hermione had gotten closer during those times, but they would blush prettily and deny if anyone ever said they were a couple.

Time passed, and now it was near the end of Harry's sixth year. His skills had improved tremendously, and although his paintings could not move or rival those of professionals' in beauty, they were _living_. One could actually feel his artwork pulsing with emotions and could hear the people inside talking.

There was one picture Harry could never perfect. He had started painting it since the summer. Everyday he would add a little more details, and after a while he would tear it off. Then he would start over again. It had been nine months since that day, and he had made very little progress.

Harry shook his head to clear off the memories, put down the pencil, and wiped his face with his sleeve. Some dust had gotten into his eyes and they pricked uncomfortably. He closed his sketchbook, not bother to see what he had created, and went off to bed.

A few weeks went by, and Harry again was found sitting in his usual chair, in the common room, painting. It was almost midnight, and all the Gryffindor had gone to bed. Like every other night, Ron and Hermione insistently stayed with him. Though he never said it, they knew he did not want anyone to look at his unfinished work, and they respected his wish. They simply sit there next to each other on the couch, relaxingly watching his hands' graceful movement. Once they had fell asleep with Hermione's head was on Ron's shoulder while his hand wrapped around her protectively. Harry had not failed to capture this beautiful moment.

After a while, Ron and Hermione went off to bed. Harry diligently worked on his creation with rapt attention. He had not noticed the time, but when he finished and looked at the time, it was five in the morning.

Harry moved a few steps away from the table. He spelled his sketchbook to stand up and at his view. His eyes lingered upon here and there, observing. He smiled in satisfaction at the living shapes - the room, the Christmas tree partly covered with magical snow and fairies, the tarnished chandeliers hung with streamers, his friends and Harry himself placing greeting cards on the tree, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley chatting merrily upon a story, Lupin comfortable on an armchair with a smile on his face, eyes resting on _him_. Harry followed Lupin's eyes and came upon the figure in the centre of the painting. He stiffened, biting back a cry as he stared at _him_ in helplessness and frustration. It was another failure. Everything had been perfect but _him_. The man who was singing a merry song was a stranger. He looked pretty much like Sirius, but it was not him. There was always something off, something Harry could not touch his fingers on, but he knew. He knew it was merely a doppelganger.

He just knew it.

Harry could feel his eyes stinging. Dust again. He hated dust, and he hated himself every time he had painted that stranger. A random thought flashed through his mind. Could he No, he couldn't have forgotten Sirius, could he? Was that why he could never paint him? A heavy weight settled upon his heart and he felt as though he would never know happiness again. It was suddenly blurry and difficult to breathe.

Harry was too focused on his grief that he did not feel a presence a few steps behind him. He hurried swallowing his sob and wiping his face as a loud voice started him, "Wow"

Harry turned back and faced to face with Ginny. Harry had thought to release the spell on the painting so that it would be out of sight, but she had stepped forward and looking at the picture in enchantment. He didn't know what to do. He disliked people taking a look at his failure, but it would be rude to take it down since Ginny had not meant to. It was his own fault for standing here, lost within his feelings. _It wouldn't be good for your heels to stand motionless_, Harry, said Luna once. He felt slightly better.

"It's so beautiful It's perfect, Harry!" said Ginny, admiration in her voice.

"No, it's not."

She looked perplexed. "No?"

"Look at it again, Ginny."

Ginny turned back to the picture and gazed at it for another minute. "I don't see what's wrong with it. We all are so real, and Sirius, woow"

At the name of _his_ Sirius, and especially his name being labeled to the bloody stranger, Harry was irritated. "Don't call him Sirius. It's not Sirius."

Ginny was more perplexed. "Then who is singing? He looks _exactly_ like Sirius. I remember that Christmas, Harry. Sirius was singing 'God Rest You, Merrye Hippogriffs.'" She giggled a bit at the reminiscence.

For every second, Harry was one stride angrier. Sirius' name was always a taboo. He despised talking about him. Ginny was usually more tactful, but perhaps she was still sleepy from waking up so soon. And her giggle didn't help.

"Call him whatever you want, but don't call him that name. This is NOT Sirius," Harry snarled, barely keeping his anger.

"Harry, what's the matter with you? I know you don't like to talk about it, but -"

Harry swallowed down a lump in his throat, trying to keep his temper in check. Months of required calm for drawing helped, but he could be easily ticked off anytime. "Look, I don't want to talk about it. Let's drop it, okay?"

"You have to talk about it sometimes soon, you know," said Ginny insistently. "It's unhealthy to keep those feelings bottled up inside. We thought you have gotten over-"

Harry was being tired and derived of sleep. He was frustrated at his failure and full of grief for his loss, and here someone was making it like it was not a big deal and suggesting that he should _forget_ Sirius. It was worse that it confirmed his sooner notion of having forgotten his godfather. Before he knew it, Harry was screaming. "I SAID I DON'T WANT TO TALK. WHY DON'T YOU SHUT UP AND LEAVE ME ALONE?"

He reversed the spell to get his sketchbook. Quickly, he slammed it close and stomped off to his dorm, leaving Ginny stunned. Some of the Gryffindors had been started out of their slumber, sleepily muttering "What?" on the way down to the common room. He brushed past them and went straight to his bed.

End Part 1

A/N: Click on the button below and write what you think, please? 


	2. Part 2

When it was time for breakfast, Harry had calmed down and started to regret his previous reaction. He wanted to apologise to Ginny, yet he could not find her at the common room. He decided to check the Great Hall. Ginny was nowhere to be found.

Ron and Hermione joined him shortly.

"What's with you, mate?" asked Ron. "You look like you have been hit with a Bludger."

"I didn't get enough sleep. That's all."

"It's not about You-Know-Who, is it?"

"Call him Voldemort, Ron," Hermione interrupted. Ron flinched at the name, much to her displease. "Honestly, you should have gotten used to this. If he had to come to kill anyone who calls him by his name, he would die of exhaustion. Even if he did, which of course is a very silly thought, according to _Hogwarts: A History_, no one can apparate to Hogwarts."

"I got it. I got it," said Ron, stopping Hermione from reciting the whole book. "It's bloody tough though." Seeing her disappointment, he quickly amended, "No, I mean… 'kay. I'll say his name. Voldemort. Voldemort. Voldemort. See, happy?"

He tried very hard not to recoil or look around to see if the Dark Lord had come, but Hermione's bright smile and a strange look of approval in her eyes were more than worth it. It would not be so difficult, perhaps, to get used to the bloody name.

"Where is Ginny?" asked Harry.

If Hermione sensed Harry seemed to be more troubled than usual, she did not force him. In time, he would tell. He always did. Ron looked around the table and was about answer with his mouth stuffed with food, but Hermione reproached, "Don't speak with your mouth full of food. No one can hear you."

Ron shut his mouth quickly and choked. He grabbed a glass of pumpkin juice and gulped the juice down.

Hermione shook her head and sighed. It may take a while. At least Ron was improving.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Harry and Hermione had Advance Potions with Snape in the morning. Vaguely Harry remembered Gryffindors and Ravenclaws fifth years had Potions after his. He would wait for Ginny even if it meant he would late for Defense Against the Dark Arts. He hoped Professor Lupin would not mind.

In the end, Harry decided today was his unlucky day. His Mandrake Restorative Draft was a disaster. Snape again implied Harry's famous name had gotten him an O in Potions the OWL. He returned the essays on Aging Potions and Harry got a D with red comments on over his parchment. Unlike what Snape said, it was not in his intention to disrespect him. He had somehow managed to get pigments on his paper, and he could not _scourgify_ it. He had tried once, and it resulted in all of the paints along his writings wiped out blank. Thankfully, he had had time to copy Hermione's paper. He was not as lucky this time.

When the class ended, Harry waited outside of Snape's classroom. There were only a few minutes before the next class started, but there was no sight of either Ginny or Luna. Just as he was about to give up, Luna marched over. Ginny was not with her.

"Hello, Harry."

"Er… hi, do you know…" He stopped, suddenly feeling foolish. Ginny was not attending classes, it seemed. Luna was her friend, but she was a Ravenclaw. She would not happen to know where Ginny was, would she?

"You're waiting for Ginny," said Luna, large, silvery eyes boring into his. Harry nodded, feeling stupid again. She did know, after all.

"I heard you had a row with her." It was not a question. "She was quite upset, you know."

Guilt began to seep in. It was his fault, after all. He should have been more careful. He should have kept his temper in check. He should have known Ginny had meant good for him and had not meant to tell him to forget Sirius. He had been irrational and misinterpreted her words. Now she was skipping classes because of this silly, little argument.

"You want to apologise, after all," said Luna, smiling. "I thought she should come here, but she wanted to see you at Professor Lupin's classroom. You know, it's quite a thoughtful way to see Professor Snape less often, don't you think?"

"It certainly is," said Harry, relief clearly in his voice.

"Well then, I'll see you later," said Luna. She drifted away to the room. Harry ran, absently checking the time. He sincerely hoped she would not get into too much trouble for being late and for being his friend. Snape loathed Harry and hence his friends more than anyone or anything save possibly, his father and Sirius.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the next evening, Harry took out his art equipment. He flipped through his papers absently and stopped at a page. His heart sank as he looked at the failure. After exploding his anger at Ginny, he had forgotten to tear off the page and destroy it.

Hermione looked up from behind her thick book. "Harry?"

He must have groaned aloud. He was about to ignore her but his logical sense kicked in. She was, after all, the smartest witch in Hogwarts and a muggle born. She knew just about anything and he had seen her with a pile of books on drawing and its history. If any wizard or witch could point out what was amiss, it would be she. Besides, he was making so little progress, so what was the point of keeping it to himself? He should ask for his friends' opinions. Ginny had seen it and could not offer criticism. Ron was thick sometimes but he may have some unappreciated artistic aptitudes. Luna may have some strange beliefs but was actually very perceptive. Neville was excellent at Herbology, a subject that required passion, dexterity, and love for nature, which was very similar to one of an artist's.

Harry supposed he should feel lucky that Neville had not gone to bed yet. Quite frequently, Neville stayed up late and asked for Hermione's help. The Gryffindor Trio actually did not mind their company since they had included Neville, Ginny, and Luna in their group. They were all close, but Harry, Hermione, and Ron still shared a special bond others did not.

Harry moved to the table where they were doing homework, or rather Neville doing homework, Ron copying Hermione's paper, and Hermione reading book. Hermione closed her book, looking up at Harry expectantly. She had always waited for this moment.

"Take a look at this and tell me what you think," Harry said simply. He set his painting down, a little nervous but very hopeful.

"Blimey, mate!" Ron stared at the aquarelle in shock. "I didn't know you were this good. Were you spending all your nights drawing this?"

Hermione agreed with Ron. She had to admit it was Harry's best artwork. Up until now, a majority of his productions she had seen was in charcoals and inks. They were beautiful, but in no way comparable to this painting. It was more beautiful and detailed than the rest, or at least that was what she thought. Hermione may knew a lot about history and facts of fine arts, but aestheticism and artistic criticism required a kind of special skills she did not possess. She used to look at Picasso's paintings and try as she may, she could never comprehend why such _unattractive_ drawings were worth billion pounds in sum. Judging from Harry's flinch at Ron's compliment, there was evidently something wrong with this piece. Perhaps the colours were not in harmony?

"What do you make of it, Hermione?" asked Harry, hopefully.

Hermione had restrained herself from making comments as she always did of she was unsure. She disliked to let him down, yet she was always honest. "I don't see what's wrong with it," she answered sincerely, "but obviously there is, isn't it?"

Harry sighed heavily and dropped down on a chair. He looked as if he had just lost a Quidditch match.

Neville had been silent for a while. With the image upside down in his view, he could not see it very well. He tentatively reached out to take a hold of the book but stopped on the way, changing his mind.

"Go on," said Harry, encouraged.

Neville spent a good few minutes looking at the painting. Eventually, he said in a nervous voice, "Er… Harry. Could I see your other work?" He added, "If you don't mind, of course."

Harry hesitated, not wanting to flip back his oversize book. Since most of the time he spent was for the Christmas pieces, he had very few coloured paintings. In addition, there was one picture he didn't want neither Ron or Hermione to see yet.

Neville looked hurt and was about to change his mind, but Harry was quicker. "Hold on. I'll get my sketchbook." Harry hurried to his room. A few minutes later he returned with his another smaller book, which he gave to Neville. The teenager opened at a few random pages, looking thoughtfully. Eventually he looked up.

"Harry, I hope you don't mind me saying so…" Neville hesitated.

"Go on. I don't need compliments."

"I think these sketches are better than this one," he voiced his thoughts. "I mean it's beautiful and all, but these are more natural. It's not the colours or anything…"

All looked at Neville with wonder. Harry waited eagerly, but Neville avoided his eyes. "Sorry. I don't know."

His face fell. "Thank you, Neville."

It left Luna. It was true that she always managed to make him feel better, but he doubted she could give him some good criticism. She was too accepting and forgiving.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In the morning, Harry saw Luna several times in the hallway and in the Great Hall, but there were many students around. He did not want them to catch a glance at his work, so he waited. When the sun was down, he managed to catch Luna at the lake.

"Hi, Luna."

She stopped her scrolling and turned to face him. "Hello, Harry."

"Are you looking for some… err… Hork Hobbin?"

"No," she said dreamily. "They don't like water creatures. I was thinking of a Billywig…

Anyway, what are you doing here yourself?"

"I… It's just… I mean…" Harry trailed off. He did not know what to say. An abrupt thought stopped him. He could not keep asking for her help whenever he was in trouble, could he? She never complained, not even when her own property was stolen, or asked for anyone's help, but he could not assume that she did not have her own problems. He ought to feel ashamed of himself…

"I'm glad to be of any help, Harry," said Luna simply, startling him. The mist in her eyes was gone. She suddenly looked very serious. Was she reading his mind? Didn't Dumbledore say Harry had mastered Occlumency?

"Err…"

She waited patiently, smiling. Harry let out a sigh and thrust the book to her. Luna took it, turned a page, stared at it and laughed so hard her back bent almost double.

Harry scowled. His paintings were anything but _funny_. He rudely jerked the book out of her hands. What was she laughing at?

It was the first page of his book. In the middle of the page was Harry's name, scribbled with red inks. Below the letters was a picture of a golden lion. It was chasing its tail and seemed never able to catch it. By the look of it, the lion was more like a big cat than a ferocious predator. It had not looked very comical when Harry produced it. He did not know if it was Luna's contagious laughter, but as he looked back, it was indeed quite humorous.

Luna was still laughing. Harry burst out laughing, joining her. If anyone looked at them, they would think they had just escaped from a mental hospital, presumably St. Mungo's long-term resident ward.

When they finally stopped, Harry's earlier moodiness was gone. Feeling quite refreshed, Harry opened the book to the Christmas painting. Smiling sheepishly, he handed it to her. She gave back her typical dazed smile.

Luna's dreamy, silvery eyes gazed upon the picture. She held it high over her head and cocked her head to stare at it. Then she lowered it until it was perpendicular to her chest. Eventually the book was shifted to cover her entirely face. All Harry could see was her bobbing head behind the painting.

As she finally returned the book, she looked thoughtful. Harry simply waited. When he thought she would not say anything and was about to thank her and go back to the castle, Luna stated serenely, "That singing man is not your godfather, is he?"

Harry gaped, surprised. As he had thought, she was very insightful. She had pointed out the fault his other friends could not. Harry felt his hope floating.

Luna continued, unfazed. "He is Stubby Broadman."

"Err…" Harry blinked. And blinked. He stared at her in complete incomprehension. Was she making a joke? Yet, she looked so serious.

"Come on, Harry. Don't tell me you forget," said Luna, her silvery eyes covered with a thin mist. "He was the lead singer of The Hobgoblins fifteen years ago."

He was positive he had heard the name somewhere. His eyes wandered back and forth thinking. They rested upon a scroll popped out from Luna's robes. At that moment, he remembered. It was an article about Sirius in _The Quibbler_ last year.

Harry did not know whether he should feel offended or amused. He settled upon the latter. Luna was right. She had seen it through. If the man was not Sirius, he could call him Stubby. Here was another who saw the doppelganger for itself.

As Harry felt his burden lessened somewhat, he found himself grinning at her. He said sincerely, "Thank you Luna, I needed it."

"You are welcome, Harry." Luna smiled. "I think I should go back and have some pudding. Good day, Harry." She drifted away to the gate.

It was then that he remembered. He had not yet found out why it was Stubby Broadman and not Sirius. He could not very well run after Luna and suspend her dinner, could he? Well, there was always next time.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Since it was near the end of the year, Harry decided not to bother Luna. He continued sketching and painting the scene repeatedly. Harry had a feeling sooner or later he would encounter Voldermort again, and he wanted to complete his painting before he joined Sirius. Despite his increasing effort, it was always Stubby. The only time he had come close to drawing Sirius was after his conservation with Luna.

The war with Voldemort continued. Before the end of April, Bellatrix, who had been captured a few weeks earlier, again escaped from Azkaban. Harry's moodiness increased, and his drawing skills were getting worse. He could now spot Stubby before he started colouring.

In one moment of rage and frustration at his failure, Harry unconsciously snapped his pencil. He went to his bed and buried all his art equipment along with the broken pieces to the bottom of the trunk. He did not get a wink of sleep that night.

For the next few days, after finishing his homework, he went straight to his dorm, much to Ron and Hermione's concern. He could not sleep. Even if he did, his dreams were full of nightmares and he would wake up soaked in sweats. He angrily retorted when Snape insulted him, resulted in Gryffindor losing fifty points and getting himself a week of detentions. Now Harry had stopped drawing, he felt as if he had lost Sirius once again. He irrationally blamed Snape for Sirius's death, if only to ease his own overwhelming guilt.

In fact, Harry blamed everyone, including Ron and Hermione. It was their fault for getting him to the Burrow and actualizing Sirius' death. It was Luna's fault for getting him out of the delusion. _No, it was not_, another part of his abruptly interrupted. It was nobody's fault but Harry's own.

Harry supposed he was going insane. It was when he decided to seek Luna out. He felt selfish asking for her help again when he never did anything for her. All he did was giving her more problems, evidently from Snape and from Harry himself. He was, after all, an obnoxious and "arrogant brat who considers himself above the rules."

Harry took his book with him. He found her leaning against the trunk of a huge tree, gazing at the clouds. He sat down next to her and went straight to his problem.

"I gave up drawing," he merely stated.

Luna, still looking at the sky, was silent as if she had not heard him.

"You don't question why?"

"What do you see, Harry?" she asked, paying no attention to his words, a finger pointing upward, never taking her eyes off her fixation.

If Harry had not known her, he would have said she did not listen to any of his words. But as it was, he patiently played along. He did not know what she was indicating, but he trusted her. After all, she was always making everything better.

His eyes followed her fingers. He squinted, trying hard, but could not make out anything. Perhaps it was some kind of invisible creatures she had found?

"I don't see anything."

"You haven't looked. There!" said Luna, patiently, hand moving around madly. "Do you see?"

For the life of him, Harry could not see anything out of usual. It was possible that Luna could see things he could not. Instead of replying her, he drifted his eyes away. She put her hand down.

Harry supposed he should let Luna in her world for a while. He leaned against the trunk, eyes wandering from the leaves of the trees to the sky. For a good ten minutes, neither Harry nor Luna said anything.

Then Harry felt it. First, it was a spring breeze, gentle and firm, carrying essences of flowers, invading his nose. Lilacs and lavenders mixed, he perceived. He inhaled another batch of pleasant smell deeply. This time it was fusion of dandelions, primroses, and mimosas. Where did they come from? He never saw any of these at Hogwarts.

The leaves around him were singing a musical song, merry but sad, strong but soft, smooth yet uneven. It combined all the contrasts together, one supporting another, becoming one and yet still remaining as different elements. When he looked upon the sky, he saw its pure blue, yet the white clouds were its taint. Without the taint, its blue was colourless and meaningless.

Harry could feel the dirk tingling his skin. The bark of trees was against his back. He closed his eyes. He did not need his eyes open to feel the earth's movement. He was one with the world. The world was he, and he was the world. He felt a sudden urge to draw. He wanted to capture this moment and eternalize it. He fumbled for his book and pencil. His hand moved on its own.

"But you're upset because you can't portray your godfather," said Luna suddenly as Harry finished his sketch and closed his book. "What were you thinking when you made that sketch, Harry?"

What was he thinking?

He stared at the new sketch. He felt a burst of excitement. He had a feeling he was about to find out a crucial fact he had missed. He flipped back a few pages. Harry found another piece that had been created when he did not know what he really was doing.

Suddenly, he understood. It was so simple that he never thought about it. On the sketches that he had unconsciously drawn, there was harmony of feelings. There were love and pain, happiness and sadness combined and became one, just as he had been one with the world. In his failed painting, there was only grief and sorrow surrounding Stubby. When he thought about Sirius, he would be stricken with grief, guilt, and helplessness. He had thought he had come to terms with Sirius's death, but he had not. He had never been able to recall a happier time when Sirius was laughing or joking. He had not been able to use the positive element of each pair.

Harry was excited. He hugged and kissed Luna upon the brow on an impulse, not really knowing what he was doing.

"Thank you, Luna. I honestly don't know what I was thinking."

Luna stared at him, still in shock at Harry's previous action, but then she smiled gently. "You're very welcome, Harry."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He could feel the singing echoed off the painting. This indeed was Sirius, merrily singing, and not Stubby Broadman or any doppelganger. This was Sirius. He could feel happiness radiating from him yet underlining it was melancholy. Sirius had been indeed both happy and a little desolate when Harry and others were there with him on that Christmas. Yet, Harry had never seen him any happier. This was Sirius, who was handsome and looked a lot younger than he was. Sirius's warmth and happiness were spreading to the others. They looked more alive, if possible. Harry could feel Sirius talking to him as if it were just yesterday.

Tears were leaking through his eyes, but they were tears of happiness. He wiped them away and smiled down at Sirius. "Hello, Sirius. How are you doing?"

He could hear Sirius answer him back, "Fine. Fine… You look horrible, Harry."

Harry smiled broadly. "Not at all. I'm happy. I haven't feel this happy for a while."

He had a feeling Sirius was smiling at him, eyes twinkling with love. He blinked. When he looked back, he saw nothing on the painting had changed.

Harry had quite few photographs of Sirius. Many were taken when his godfather was young, but some of the recent ones were of Sirius and Remus in Grimmauld Place. He even had the photo of them in Christmas. And the figures in the pictures always moved and in one special charmed picture, they could even talk. They were made to create an illusion that they were living, but they had failed. They were nothing more than hollow shapes of real wizards and witches.

Harry had never used any spell or magical ingredient or anything related to such on his artwork. Figures in his painting never truly talked or moved, but they actually did in their own unique way. Sirius was more alive than any picture or photo because he was forever living in Harry's heart and had taken shape out of this love. Harry did not need a wand to create a miracle, because this magic was more natural and more powerful than any other spell, or potions, or charms. It was pure magic in its most natural form that was gifted to any living being, be it animal or human, magical, or non-magical creature. Harry suddenly understood the force that was "at once more wonderful and more terrible than death, than human intelligence, than forces of nature" that Dumbledore had once spoken of.

For the first time in months, Harry slept peacefully. He looked so utterly happy with a smile on his lips that Ron, in the morning, could not find the heart to wake him.

At the end of the feast, Harry had all three favorite paintings in frames and covered with glass; all were carefully cut and polished by Harry alone. He carefully put the Christmas painting in his trunk between layers of robes for safekeeping. He did not know what to do with the one he had made of Ron and Hermione sleeping on the couch. He decided to give it for them when they finally admitted their love. The last one, which was of the sextet at the Burrow last summer, would be given to Luna as a thank-you gift. He knew she would love it, since she had never truly had friends until Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville, and Harry came. He knew, without a doubt, that their friendship meant a lot to her.

**--THE END --**

**A/N**: I love the sextet, but Luna and Ron are the toughest to write. To tell the truth, I intended the story to be quite angst, yet it turned out not because of Luna. Another confession is that I cannot portray R/Hr very well. If Hermione were here, she would say I have a range of emotions less than of a teaspoon. Harry, I believe, will never be an artist in canon, but I have a habit of exploring unappreciated fields. Forgive me if the characters are OOC.


End file.
